


this is not an african proverb

by Quixotism



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Erik Killmonger Lives, Gen, after the snap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixotism/pseuds/Quixotism
Summary: “You are N’jadaka, son of N’jobu,” she says as if she hasn’t casually punched the air from his lungs. As if she didn’t denounce him and scorn him when he arrived. Like she wasn’t hisaunt, “You are owed, but you must also owe. we will weigh our payments and decide.”AU where Erik lives, the Snap happens and he has to take up the mantle of King and Black Panther.
Relationships: Erik Killmoger & Ramonda, Erik Killmonger & Nakia (Black Panther), Erik Killmonger & Okoye
Kudos: 27





	this is not an african proverb

this is not an african proverb  
— [source](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/ClBJ8F8UoAAnMvL.jpg)

* * *

He opens his eyes to the ceiling and thinks to himself, _damn, that’s not what the ocean looks like._

Then the memories flood back, like the slow even-tide on empty shores, unburdened. He expected the anger, the rage, the pulsating beat of drums but none of that comes. Which is annoying. Erik was ready to be frustratingly mad enough to liven his limbs and tear out the arms of whoever walked through the door. 

Instead he lies there, staring at the ceiling. Even in Wakanda (and it had to be Wakanda), time slows to a crawl. His eyelids droop and he goes back to sleep, but all he dreams of are sunsets and the crashing sound of waves.

* * *

When Erik wakes up a second time, Ramonda is sitting by the chair. Her spine is ramrod straight and he’s tempted to make a stick up your ass joke but something in her expression stills the humour from his lips. Instead he wets them, parched and heavy, keeping his gaze on her, jaguar-sharp. He suspects she would slit his throat if she could. family’s good at that. There are no _dora_ at her side, so Erik assumes the queen feels confident in her safety. And she’s probably right considering his limbs still feel like lead weights ready to sink him below the waves. 

He’s not going to admit that, though Erik is cruel enough to bare his throat and his teeth in defiance. Cruelty is a weapon and he will use every weapon he has. 

“Hey auntie,” he drawls. She seems to sit up even straighter at that, which he didn’t think was possible and nearly rolls his eyes, “Long time no see.”

Ramonda doesn’t respond. Instead she brushes her hands over her dress, pressing down on the creases (he imagines he is a crease to her, a bump she never expected and never reconciled. he sees no joy, no love in her eyes. 

But then again. What would killmonger know of love?) 

Finally, in an unwavering, stilless tone, she speaks, “The king is dead.”

Erik stares. Openly. 

“The princess is dead,” Ramonda continues, as if she did not notice his reaction. And perhaps she did not. Perhaps the audience is not Erik but phantoms only the queen can see. More creases are pressed out of existence. All Erik can see is flawless white, a sea untouched by waves. 

When she finishes, the silence rings like the aftermath of gunfire and shellshock. Erik can taste iron on his lips and it tastes bittersweet. He licks them, regardless, these parched lips, “What’s that gotta do with me?” as if he didn’t know, as if he was failing to catch her meaning. gold glints in his teeth, “I ain’t your king.”

“No,” Ramonda replies, steel and iron, blood and water. Erik can hear the crescendo of grief held back by her words, “But you can be _a_ king. a black panther. under _my_ grace.” 

There it is, the condition. all in all, a little . . . vague. though Erik suspects there are more chains attached to it. Erik twitches his fingers from under the covers. He’s been dealt with chains all his life. What’s a few more to a breath of life, even if he’s still mad about it.

_The king is dead._

He finds it hard to swallow and the anger comes back like a pulse, tectonic plates shifting under his heart. That he can trust. 

But he has to ask, “why?”

Ramonda’s eyes flash and Erik thinks, _she’s definitely gonna kill me once this is done_ but the light fizzles like a match in the dark, only smoke outlining dark eyes. grief covers the queen like a shroud, stately and imprenetable, hoary frost. 

“You are N’jadaka, son of N’jobu,” she says as if she hasn’t casually punched the air from his lungs. As if she didn’t denounce him and scorn him when he arrived. Like she wasn’t his _aunt_ , “You are owed, but you must also owe. we will weigh our payments and decide.”

A mutual agreement. he could say no. He _should_ say no. Let them rot, let them burn. Let it all burn. The world has done him any favours, he owes the world none. Weights and balances are for the colourblind, who see nothing but greys. Let his world be black in reds. 

He could say no. 

Instead Erik says, “Sure. Let’s get this party started,” and smiles, fanged white against her sea of white and Ramonda meets it, steel for steel. 

_The king is dead._

* * *

The first thing Erik learns once he’s on his feet again is the world got _fucked._ something to do with an alien warlord with a poor grasp of economics and magical stones. Sure, why not. It made as much sense as anything does, these days. Wakanda, like the rest of the world was in a state of panic, never having suffered such a huge loss of life, like a scythe was taken to the field in one fell swoop. Unsurprising. They were never prepared and treated their privilege like a right, their vibranium like the insoles of their shoes (which. it probably was there). Either way, they have cut off the borders once more and huddle close in the streets. 

Erik hears crying every day. 

It is Okoye who briefs him, methodical and firm. Her eyes burn like his own but the shadow of grief is close enough and makes the flame splutter. Erik’s never had that problem, so he lets her eyes spit venom and fire so long as he’s a decent distance away not to get burned (or stabbed.). Once she finishes, her shoulders _slump_ and his eyebrows go up in shock.

“You tired?” Erik says, casually, twitching in case he needs to leap out of the way. She shoots him another poisoned glare and that actually makes him feel better. 

“We are _all_ tired,” she replies, sharp and to the point, “But not tired enough to forget your sins.” 

Sins. How . . . biblical. It tastes strangely on her tongue and he sees that too. with a careless shake, Erik brushes her words off the table with a single sweep, “Yeah, yeah, we all know that. And you must have known the queen was gonna do this. I doubt she did it without your blessing.” 

Okoye nods stiffly, never one to lie, “You are hatred. But I do not think you wish to cut down a man while he bleeds onto the floor.” 

His eyebrows go higher, “What, is that an african proverb?”

She immediately turns on her heel, muttering _mka le_ to herself. Erik laughs.

* * *

His story to the public is that he is the long-lost son of prince N’jobu. He only discovered his secret recently due to his father’s diary and made his way home. A lost son returning to the homeland. the people eat it up. The council, knowing the truth, keep quiet but they don’t seem all that fussed. Erik wished he was surprised, but very little has surprised him beyond breathing at this point. People perform to their roles. Nothing truly changes. And Wakanda, for all its vaunted superiority are just people. There are no heroes here.

 _The king is dead_. 

Erik swallows salt on his tongue. 

As he leaves the audience, a woman stops him. A woman familiar to him, though the name escapes him, rattling around the empty chambers of his head. She is the only one who does not seem angry or pleased. She also walks in the shadow of grief, but everyone does at the moment. Nothing about that is _special_. What is special about her is how evenly she looks at him, how cleanly her gaze assesses. 

A war dog. A spy. Cut from the same mold, though Erik dismisses it quickly. No one is like him here. To believe that is to invite pain. 

The woman — _Nakia_ suddenly burns into his mind finally — speaks, so soft he would not have caught her words if he wasn’t hyperfocused on her. 

“Why are you doing this?” she murmurs, so close he can smell the tang of river-lilies. Something about the softness of it makes him balk, makes him want to retreat. it digs at him, relentless, an invisible pressure he does not know how to abate.

Or is it just tectonic plates shifting in his soul?

“Do I need a reason?” he shoots back instead, like a gunshot. 

She seems relieved, “If you do not know, then perhaps there is hope.”

He snorts, “Hope for whom?”

“For all of us,” Nakia says, making that her parting reply as she brushes against him to leave. No fear. for a moment, Erik considers lashing out, branding her arm with his fingers to show that he has no softness, all he has is the fire and hatred. 

But his arms don’t move. They’re still heavy, still weighted. And he can hear nothing else but the siren call of the ocean.

**Author's Note:**

> Spur of the moment fic, let's see how it goes. More characters will make an appearance.


End file.
